


Chocolat

by christalou



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-07-13 15:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16020644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christalou/pseuds/christalou
Summary: Draco flees the Wizarding World at the end of the War. But has he really found peace - or will a mysterious chocolaterie, its owner, and two incorrigible house-elves change that? Based on Joanne Harris' Chocolat.





	1. Autumn

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by Joan Harris' Chocolat, a wonderful book that everyone should read. Of course, I own neither the premise of Chocolat, nor the characters and world of Harry Potter. This work is also completely posted on FF.net! This version will have some minor grammatical and structural changes from that one.

_Autumn_

 

At the beginning of Draco's self-imposed isolation, his friends sent him owls, of course. When their letters were returned unopened, everyone but his mother took the hint.

Draco leans his chin on his hand and stares out the window at the darkness of the village square. These days, after the letters stopped coming, that's mostly all he does. His books have lost their charm. He barely uses his wand. He hardly eats. He hardly sleeps. In fact, he hardly stirs.

Right now, it's before dawn - much too early for any of the villagers to be awake. In wakeful night after wakeful night, Draco has come to know the patterns of the village as well as the back of his own hand. So he is immediately alert when he catches a flash in the window of the long-abandoned bakery.

Draco strains his eyes. The flash is followed by a warm glow, as of candlelight, faint through the years-old dust of the bakery window. Then a swirl - red - fabric. Then an arm draws shut the dilapidated curtains, and all is quiet again in the village square.

 

* * *

 

Later that morning, when Minky comes to bring him his customary cup of coffee, Draco inquires, "Is someone moving into the bakery, Minky?"

"Minky is not knowing of anything, sir," says Minky, with a curious look from his bulbous eyes.

"I thought I saw something there last night." "Minky is thinking," says Minky, "that Master should not be sleeping so late at night, sir."

"Never mind," says Draco.

"Minky is receiving one letter from Mistress Narcissa Malfoy, Master." Minky holds out the envelope, addressed in the unmistakeable copperplate of Draco's mother.

"You know what to do with it," says Draco listlessly. He dismisses Minky and the letter with a wave of his hand.

Neither Minky nor the letter moves. "Minky is thinking," says Minky, still holding out the envelope, "that Master should be opening the letters form Mistress Narcissa, once in a while, sir."

"Minky, go away," says Draco, and at last, with one last reproachful look, Minky Disapparates.

Draco returns to his vigil over the little abandoned bakery across the square. Perhaps Minky was right. Perhaps Draco had been imagining things. Perhaps his mind, like everything else in his life, is finally beginning to crumble.

Suddenly golden light beams through the chinks of the old curtains. Draco stares. The strange light beams again, blue this time, and Draco would swear - another flash, pink, for a second, and blinks out - Draco would swear, if he didn't know better, that the flashes came from a Colour-Changing Charm.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few wearing days, Draco becomes more and more convinced that the mysterious tenant of the bakery building is indeed a wizard. Even Minky and his companion Tibby are forced to admit something suspiciously magical about the shop's aura.

There are the continual Charms at night, for one thing, with their distinctive flashes of coloured light. In the morning, splashes of paint daub the pavement outside, and the village children crowd around the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the interior.

One day before dawn, Draco notices a spidery mist emitting from the bakery's chimney, rolling over and settling on the ground in a manner that no mortal mist could. It is so subtle that he doubts anyone but he has noticed it. He opens his window to investigate it further. It creeps up his wall, and into his room, and Draco's nostrils are filled with the inviting scent of vanilla and cognac.

He feels a cold panic grip his heart. Why a wizard? What kind of wizard? Draco specifically chose this Muggle village, secluded from the outside and so far removed from the magical world it might as well be on a different planet. He specifically chose it so he would never be bothered, never be reminded, again. Why has this wizard, now, come here as well?

 

* * *

 

Then on the third week the bakery sign comes down and a new sign goes up, and Draco's fear evaporates, for the sign says in curly old-gold lettering: Chatoyant Chocolaterie.

A chocolaterie! What kind of fool would open a chocolaterie here, where a quiet evening at the pub is considered the height of debauchery and entertainment? Why, Draco doubts half the villagers even know the difference between milk and dark chocolate! Surely the chocolaterie will be out of business within a week of its opening, leaving Draco in blessed solitude once more.

Draco's shoulders sag in relief. To think he was so worried, only a few days ago! That night, for the first time in many, he is able to sleep well. Surely, after all, the troubling chocolaterie will soon be gone.

 

* * *

 

Draco watches the shop closely on its opening day. The spidery smoke surrounds the village now, seeming to whisper enticing things, ever-so-sweetly.

The villagers are cautious, but curious. Draco sees first the children, then the young men, and finally everyone up to the pub-owner himself, pour in, partake, and exit beaming.

In the week that follows, the chocolaterie shows no sign of diminishing in popularity. Though perhaps it doesn't have a stream of customers, it can certainly be said to have a steady trickle, which for this village is high praise indeed.

Draco grows more and more agitated. He says to Tibby, who has come in to clean, "What could be its secret?"

Tibby stacks five empty coffee cups on top of one another and clucks at the way Draco has carelessly tossed them aside. "Tibby is not knowing, Master, and Tibby is not thinking it matters one way or another, sir."

"Of course it matters," says Draco. "I didn't come all this way to this godforsaken village to be found out by some cocktossing crackpot."

"Then perhaps, sir," says Tibby, "Master can be thinking of leaving, sir."

"Don't be silly, Tibby," says Draco. "You may go now."

"Tibby is just saying what Tibby is thinking best, sir," insists Tibby, before Disapparating.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks into the chocolaterie's tenure, Draco cracks. "Minky," he says one morning, "d'you think you could get some of the chocolates for me?"

"Minky cannot, sir," says Minky airily, and Draco remembers that he can hardly send house-elves to an establishment patronised by Muggles.

"But Minky is thinking," continues Minky, "that Master can be going himself, sir."

"What?" says Draco. "Minky, are you crazy?"

"Master," suggests Minky, pointedly looking nowhere and especially not at Draco, "is still being perfectly capable of using his own legs, sir."

Draco practically growls as he dismisses Minky from the room. Perhaps he is being too lenient with his house-elves, the cheeky things.

But when left alone, he considers. It's true that his house-elves are personas non grata in the Muggle world outside this house. Furthermore, it's true that he still retains full use of his physical capacities. Finally and most glaringly, it's true that he craves to try the chocolates that have stirred the village.

Is it worth it? Draco wonders, and his brain tells him no, that if he once lets in this taste of the outside, it will invade his senses and permeate the protective fortress of his mind. But perhaps it's the silky vanilla-cognac smell, forever wearing away at his resolve, or perhaps it's just the return of his natural curiousity - and the notion does not leave his mind.

 

* * *

 

As he grips the chocolaterie's door-handle, Draco is arrested by an unwelcome thought. Through the fractured glass of the door-panes, the owner looks suspiciously like -

It is indeed Hermione Granger herself who comes forward to greet him, and freezes. He would recognise that headful of curls anywhere.

For a moment neither speaks. Then Granger smiles - carefully. "It's a pleasure, Malfoy."

They shake hands. A month ago he wouldn't have gone within a metre of her, much less - Her hand is warm and floury.

She doesn't ask why he is here. Her smile doesn't waver. "Since we're alone," she says, "I see no reason to keep the Statute."  She closes her eyes and her lips move almost imperceptibly, and Draco feels an unknown wave of magic wash over him.

"What was that?" he says, in a half-whisper, and hates how vulnerable the vanilla-scented warmth makes him sound.

"Oh, it won't harm you. I do it to every new customer - very subtly, of course. It helps me find out their favourites."

"Their favourites?"

"Their favourite kind of chocolate. The spell took me just ages to work out."

"A highly modified Revelio," says Draco.

"Exactly," says Granger, looking at him with some respect. "Malfoy, you seem to have a soft spot for capezzoli di Venere."

With a quick and successive series of flicks, a pyramid of chocolates flies out of a display cabinet and into a box. A wide, dull-gold ribbon wraps itself around the box, and the whole thing plumps itself in Draco's hands.

"Obviously with Muggles, I do it the Muggle way," says Granger.

"I would think so," says Draco.

"The first box is on the house - that's my policy. More customers, like that."

"Granger - " says Draco. "I'm - surprised."

"Thank you," she says lightly, and turns away to attend another customer who has just entered.

As Draco reaches for the chocolates in the box, he realises that this is the first time he and Granger have ever had a conversation. They never talked, not really, not during their school years - he doesn't think they ever said more than a few dozen words to each other throughout their Hogwarts careers. After that there was the trial, but that was perfunctory. Kingsley Shacklebolt would hardly have started off his reign as Minister by imprisoning a boy so young, so broken, and so misguided. Granger was there, he remembers, but limited her words to her testimony, and left soon after.

"Go on," says Granger, guiding him out of his dangerous reverie.

He looks back to her, and realises they are, once again, alone.

The chocolate is bite-sized, and pinkly perfect. It's tipped with a tiny marzipan ball. Draco lets it melt in his mouth, and beyond the rich rosy swirl of brandy and chestnut that ruptures on his tongue, he is infused with a strange but familiar sense of satiation. He hasn't felt this way since - since before he left home - before the War. He tastes another, and another, savouring each, and each time it feels the same - that slow, soft, _sensual_ feeling.

"How are they?" says Granger, who has sent off the customer with a box of florentines. "Good?"

"Yes," says Draco. "But how did you get the, the - ?"

Granger smiles, mischievously, and it's not at all like her first strained one. "The post-coital effect?"

Draco almost chokes. "Er, yes. That."

"My chocolatier magic," says Granger, "involves lots of emotion. I pour my feelings into my work, literally. It works something like a Pensieve. The Charms are stirred into the couverture, before sugar or other flavourings are added. I thought such emotions would be particularly suited to rich chocolates like these."

"Yes," says Draco again. And in the fluster of discussing such subjects, or in fact any subjects, with Hermione Granger, he forgets about why he came - to ask her why she moved into this town, and how dare she disturb his peace, and then to find out how long it will be before the media swoops in to claim their darling. On the way out, he merely says, "Thanks for the chocolates," and she says, "No problem, Malfoy, you're welcome to come again."

* * *

 

Draco leaves the chocolaterie well enough alone for a few days, but before two weeks have passed he returns. After all, the chocolates were divine - worth braving Granger's presence.

Still, though, he is wary. He makes sure to come late, after the Muggles have dispersed. He isn't ready yet to face their multitudes.

He purchases sharp circles of chocolate-coated peppermint, which release short bursts of clean energy throughout his system. That night, when Tibby espies him pacing the hallways instead of sitting in his usual seat at his desk, the house-elf gives a startled squeak at the unfamiliar sight.

The third time Draco goes, a few days after that, he chooses cabernet truffles. "Good choice, Malfoy," says Granger. "You shouldn't have any nightmares tonight."

"Modified Dreamless Sleep?" says Malfoy.

"Very, very mild dose," agrees Granger, with a smile.

And then he is back again, craving the silk of chocolate against tongue, and bites into tiny oysters, which release a flood of pearly cream.

"Undetectable Extension Charm," explains Granger. She glints to herself. "I always was a bit of an expert with those."

"Granger," he says, "surely selling all these charms and things to Muggles- "

"No," says Granger, very quickly. "I checked. The Statute prohibits only disruptive or detectable magic in the presence of Muggles. That's why it's legal, for example, to Obliviate a Muggle. My spells are neither disruptive nor detectable, and so I'm quite able to hold my own against the Wizengamot, should problems ever arise - which they won't."

"Trust you to have done all this research to circumvent a convention," says Draco. Then, "But why not such a shop in Diagon Alley? I thought you were daft not to. I'm sure you'd do much better - "

Granger's smile freezes. She thinks before answering, "London got a little noisy for me."

 

* * *

 

 

As a Slytherin, Draco has a unique and highly-trained ability to detect half-truths. He ponders over what Granger's true reason for leaving London - leaving her inseparable friends - could be. _She_ cannot be hiding from her past. How can he find out?

"Minky has a letter from Mistress Narcissa Malfoy, Master," chirps Minky, as if on cue, and Draco starts.

"Pass it to me, Minky," says Draco.

The letter is filled with half-hearted gossip, of descriptions of the Manor and changes Narcissa is making. "Everything will be changed when you come back," she writes, "but I haven't touched your room."

Draco understands his mother so that he's able to read between the lines and see how much she misses him. To his surprise, he feels a twinge of empathy in response - a twist of pain.

He writes back, and not just to inquire for news of Granger. He fills ten pages with everything about the village, about the chocolaterie, about himself. It's as if a great heavy weight on him has dissolved - has left him with the owl that takes the letter to his mother.

When the response comes, Draco is relieved to find that Narcissa Malfoy, with her trademark tact, is not pushing for his return. She responds cleanly to his questions, and owls him several newspaper clippings also, amongst which are several headlines of particular interest to Draco.

"War Heroine Disappears, Covering Tracks Neatly"

"War Heroine Takes A Breakaway From Ministry Position"

"Vanished: Where Is Hermione Granger?"

Photographs: Granger and Weasley conversing heatedly. Them stalking out of the Bell & Jewel. Weasley engaged in a passionate liplock with Lavender Brown.

A tabloid cover, too - Witch Weekly: "Wizarding World's Golden Couple Splits! See a Timeline of Their Doomed Romance!"

Draco knows a fellow refugee when he sees one. He is able to piece together a timeline of his own.


	2. Winter

_Winter_

 

Though the mystery has been cleared, Draco returns again and again to the little shop. So does its ever-growing patronage.

As always, he goes just before closing time, when the Muggles wax thin. He goes for the chocolates - on which he has come to depend. He has not slept this well, or consistently, for ages. He brings a whole new dimension to the word  _chocoholic._

Eventually, one day, Granger turns to him at closing time and he thinks she is about to send him away, but she says, "You can stay and watch me close up, if you like. There's no need to walk home yet - it's cold out tonight."

Drawn by the possibility of witnessing her spellwork, he stays. He watches her stir, mix, brows furrowed.

She begins by telling him about her chocolate. Many nights he sits at the counter and listens to her explain. It's something for both of them to think about, to break up the solitude. She'll say, "My favourite flavour to mix with orange is nutmeg," and she'll hand him two different mixtures to try, and he'll prefer the ginger, and they'll argue. Or she'll demonstrate for him a charm at which she's particularly adept, and he'll try his hand at it, and he takes especial pleasure in the fleeting look of admiration that crosses her face.

He starts to love the intricacy that is chocolatier magic - a blend of Charms and Potions, with focus on subtlety, taste, and texture - something that, though obscure, seems to fit his mind and preferences perfectly.

Late into the night, finally, she'll take off her red apron, unpin her mass of curls. Inevitably, they stop speaking about just chocolate. With a wry laugh, one day, as Granger waits for a pot to boil, she recites to him:

"'The time has come,' the Walrus said, 'to talk of many things. Of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax, and cabbages, and kings.'"

"I've never heard that before," says Draco. It's ridiculous, but sounds in his head like music.

"You wouldn't have," says Granger. "It's Muggle."

Slowly, Draco begins to catch bits and pieces of Muggle poetry, of Muggle TV shows, of Muggle songs, woven inextricably into Granger's speech.

Of course they disagree passionately on many subjects. She articulates the merits of a bill she put forth for house-elf rights; he, unapologetically, owns two, and tells her so. They spend many a quarter-hour arguing.

 

* * *

 

One day, when Draco hasn't found a quiet opening to be alone in chocolaterie for a while, Granger shows up on his  _doorstep._

"What are you - " splutters Draco. "How do you know where I live?"

Granger shrugs. "Malfoy, I see you walk across the square every time you come."

"Why are you  _here?_ "

She hands him two packages of chocolates. "You haven't come in a few, and I figured it would be in everyone's best interests - especially your poor house-elves' - to keep you happy. Besides, Christmas is soon, and you're the only person I talk to - really talk to - here."

Draco, for lack of words, turns over the packages in his hands. "What are these?"

"Florentines," says Granger. "Pistachio. For confidence," she adds.

 _Confidence._ Draco's mind flashes to his mother and he suddenly knows exactly what to do with the florentines. "Thank you," he says. "And the others?"

"Dark chocolate and lavender," says Granger. "Lavender is often supposed to be soothing."

There seems to be nothing more to do, and he's certainly not about to let her  _in,_ so they just stand there for a while until Granger says, "I should, um, go."

"Yeah," agrees Draco, quickly. "Thanksforthechocolates _bye_."

The door closes on Granger's retreating back. Draco's heart beats, hard.  _She_ has come  _here._ No one had come here since Draco first entered.  _She - here._ He leans against the walls and tears open the package of lavender creams. He stuffs two in his mouth at once - and instantly feels calmer.

From the corner of the stairwell, Minky and Tibby watch him through curious eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Draco, who corresponds with his mother now, sends her the box of Granger's florentines at the beginning of the Christmas season.

In return, a copy of the newest edition of  _Charms and Chocolate_ appears in the next owl-post. "To be regifted at will," Narcissa Malfoy has written on the packaging.

Her message is clear. He sends it, anonymously, of course, but the next time he is in the little shop, Granger turns to him almost shyly.

"Thank you for the book, Malfoy," she says. "I haven't had any time to get new books in since I opened the shop."

He nods, stiffly.

She hesitates, holds out her hand as if to shake, and when he extends his in return, she changes his mind and pulls him into a short hug.

"It really means very much to me," she says against him.

He disentangles himself from her vanilla-scented embrace, spits out a curl, and snaps, "Careful, Granger. Every hair on my head is insured for more Galleons than is proper to speak of."

She shrugs. "I'll ignore your overwhelming conceit this once, but only because I've really been starved for reading."

She turns away, but something disconcertingly like a smile lingers on her lips, and Draco finds himself almost mirroring.

 

* * *

 

_Slowly at first, the dancing of an eye._

The months after Christmas seem only to amplify Granger's already snowballing fame. Muggles from neighbouring villages, even the cities, seem to enjoy taking day-trips to visit the chocolaterie. More often than not, there are long lines out the door past closing time - more often than not, Draco can't find it in himself to front the swarms of customers. And one day, amidst the usual breeziness of Narcissa Malfoy's letter, there's a newspaper clipping again: "War Heroine Sighted in Obscure Muggle Village?"

_The swirl of a red apron._

What did he expect? Their anonymity, the solitude they share - isn't it  _ironic_? - it can hardly last forever. When the second week of February closes, dark and heavy, Harry Potter turns up. Draco, who happens to be there, gives Granger and Potter a wide berth. He hears her whisper, "I missed you, Harry," and pretends not to notice their hug. Potter talks with her in a hushed, happy, hurrying voice.

_The movement of a floury elbow._

It's easy to tell that their friendship is stronger than ever, because Potter appears quite regularly after that. Draco sees him, from his window, and he's another reason he stops going very much. On occasion, the youngest Weasel shows, determinedly without her brother. Other wizardfolk trickle in, though few and far between.

But though Draco rarely goes to the chocolaterie any more, Granger has taken to turning up occasionally at his door, with her chocolates and sometimes a smile, so he doesn't have to go without.

 

* * *

 

"Tibby thinks," says Tibby, "that if next the Miss Granger is visiting, Master should let the Miss Granger  _in_ the house, sir."

Draco, who's been in a foul mood all day as the village celebrates Christmas, snaps, "I think that you think too much for your own good."

Tibby carefully clears away the wrappings from Narcissa Malfoy's Christmas present - a silver-gold ring, centuries-old, with the Malfoy crest in tiny emeralds. "Tibby thinks it is something that will be making Master  _happy,_ sir."

"Tibby! You're a  _house-elf,_ not a personal therapist."

Tibby gives a tiny shrug. "Tibby is seeing that Master sometimes lets Miss Granger tell him what to do."

"I most certainly do  _not,_ " says Draco.

"Master is letting the Miss Granger give him chocolates, sir, and standing on the doorstep talking to her for  _ten minutes together,_ sir."

"That's different," says Draco. "That's because it would be rude to just take the chocolates, and besides, because I get bored."

"Tibby is thinking, sir, that letting in the Miss Granger would make Master  _less_ bored."

"You don't understand, Tibby!" says Draco, slightly panicked. "Letting her in - it would change everything! More people are showing up here - people from the past, Tibby - if I let her in, it would be like opening a floodgate!"

Tibby, the stubborn little thing, ignores him. "It would be good for Master."

"All right, Tibby, you're dismissed," says Draco.

"Master should think about what Tibby is saying to him, sir," says Tibby.

" _Dismissed,_ " says Draco.

Nevertheless, the next time Granger rings his doorbell, he sees her bundled three-deep in hats and scarves and coats, and finds himself saying, "You can come in out of the cold for a bit, if you want, Granger."

Her eyes shine. "Do you have a library?"

"I haven't used it almost since I came here," he begins.

"Never mind," she says, nearly barrelling him over. "Show me where it is."

 

* * *

 

Granger, apparently, packed in haste when she left London. Most of her store of books is still in her old flat. This Draco learns over cups of coffee and a plateful of  _religeuses,_ after Granger has hungrily selected a pile of books from his shelves.

"You've probably gathered, by now, why I left," she says, stirring her coffee. "I know I should have handled the media explosion more calmly. It isn't like I  _haven't_ dealt with this type of situation before. But all the times in school - they were different - the accusations were so  _ridiculous,_ for one thing. With Ron, it was all so  _true._ I saw myself portrayed as overbearing, a prude, an uptight workaholic, and  _believed_ it, and hated myself."

Draco recognises parts of her story. Substitute  _overbearing, prude, workaholic_ for - well, for slightly worse things -

"A fair share of reporters took your side," he blurts out, mostly to stop his train of thought.

"But it was all still so fresh, without being reminded of Ron every time I picked up a  _Daily Prophet._ People pointed Quick-Quotes Quills at me everywhere I went in public - I just felt I had to get away from it as quickly as possible."

Draco nods and is silent.

"I've had fun here," continues Granger. "Now I suppose it's all starting up again, but it's been a good while, and I think I'm better now. I don't want to leave just yet, though."

"Leave?" says Draco. The idea is not quite pleasant to him. "I thought you were a permanent fixture here."

"I'm flattered," says Granger, with a half-smile. "But yes, I've always known that someday, I'd leave. For now it's nice, running a chocolaterie, learning new spells every day, penetrating Draco Malfoy's defences."

"You're not -  _penetrating_ my  _defences,_ " says Draco.

"I'm sitting in the middle of your house, aren't I?" she twinkles at him.

"Only because my house-elves let you in - against my  _wishes._ "

"I think," she says after a minute. "I think that your company is something - " she pauses- "I didn't know - I needed."

Draco nods, not quite sure what to do with her confession. He feels strangely like he wants to smile, so he frowns instead. "Why a chocolaterie?" he asks instead, picking at the least significant part of her frankness.

She grins. "I'll tell you the real reason," she says. "My parents are dentists, so a candy shop is sort of the ultimate form of rebellion."

With that, she returns to her book, and he takes it that question time is over.

 

* * *

 

 

The winter mellows. When Granger comes to his house, she pores over his books with alarming speed and efficiency. She gradually commandeers his kitchen as well as his library. They have late suppers together, silent, reading.

As March sets in, and she begins to prepare for Easter, she becomes busy, and her visits taper off to an end. Once, craving the chocolates, Draco braves the crowds. On seeing him, standing awkwardly among the flocks of Muggles, Granger takes pity and draws him into the kitchen.

He watches her engineer tiny chocolate eggs that, when touched with the tip of the tongue, release a lilac or honeysuckle or lavender bunny. She infuses those with a carefree lightheartedness, something he can't quite put a name to, but finds strangely familiar as he looks at Granger's warm hair and the bright fabric of her apron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this instalment of Chocolat! And - I'm not begging for reviews - but I'm totally begging for reviews!  
> As I've said before, I own neither Chocolat nor Harry Potter - but highly recommend both works, if you haven't already read them ;)


	3. A Year Passes

_Spring_

 

From his customary place at the chocolaterie's kitchen counter, Draco is the first to spot Ron Weasley. He quickly recognises the tall blonde beside him as Lavender Brown.

Draco watches them enter, wondering if he should warn Granger - but before he can intercept her, she leaves the kitchen to meet them, smile drawn like a sword. Draco is reminded of her innate  _difference,_ her Gryffindorness. He feels a pang.

When she comes back, for the first time since they met here, she looks tired and worn.

"Lavender invited me to their wedding," she says. "Which is really very nice of her."

"And you're  _going?_ " Draco asks, incredulously.

Granger nods. "Ron is one of my oldest friends," she said. "

On Good Friday, finally, Ron Weasley appears - with his fiancée Lavender Brown in tow. They are two among a small but growing number of wizards willing to mingle with Muggles for Granger's chocolates.

Draco watches them enter from his place at the kitchen counter. He watches her go out to meet them, smile drawn like a sword, and is reminded of her innate  _difference,_ her Gryffindorness. He feels a pang.

When she comes back, for the first time since they first met here, she looks tired and worn.

"Lavender asked me to be a bridesmaid at her wedding," she says. "Which is really very nice of her."

"And you're going?" says Draco, incredulously. "Why?"

Granger nods. "In June, for a week. We didn't break up - unamicably - it just - didn't work."

"But why? Why are you going?"

"I could hardly say no to one of my oldest friends," she says. "We fought a war together."

Draco's hand, of its own accord, reaches out across the counter. Their fingers meet for only a few brief seconds.

 

* * *

 

In late May the  _Closed for Business - Back Soon_ sign goes up in the chocolaterie window.

 

* * *

 

Draco has been in a foul mood all week.

For one thing, he hasn't had any new chocolate in what seems like  _years._

For another, since Granger's departure, he's contracted a nasty head cold.

And finally, his damned house-elves have started meeting in dark corners to confer knowingly with each other, their bulbous eyes glinting with what Draco can only describe as concealed  _mirth._ It's annoying, and Draco has taken to lobbing socks at them in order to break them apart.

Which just  _reminds_ him of Granger and puts him in an even worse slump. How many times has he caught her terrorising his house-elves by attempting to offer them Galleons or scarves? For all that, though, they seem to like the woman. In their secret discourse the words "Miss Granger" appear with alarming frequency.

Today Draco is so sick and so tired that he lets his house-elves  _tuck_ him into bed - tuck  _him,_ a grown man, into bed! And to add insult to injury, they have placed a cup of hot tea - patronisingly, Draco thinks - on his nightstand.

He is woken around eleven by a nightmarish screech.

"I  _have_ to, Minky, don't you see?"

"Master is giving Minky strict orders not to be disturbing him - "

"Five minutes can't hurt, Minky! And never mind what your  _numbskull_ master told you, he quite obviously doesn't know what's good for him!"

"Though Minky is heartily agreeing with parts of Miss Granger's speech, Miss Granger, Minky cannot -  _eep!_ Miss Granger, please do not be taking off your sock, Minky will move aside right away, Miss Granger!"

And so goes his last line of defence. Draco, postponing the inevitable, appears at the top of the steps, unseemly pyjamas notwithstanding.

"Granger," he drawls, "has anyone ever told you not to come barging into people's houses at ungodly hours of the night?"

"Eleven o'clock," says Granger in a voice of wilting scorn, "is not an ungodly hour. And anyone who says otherwise is weak." She holds out a box like a queen. "Nobody should have to spend their twenty-first birthday alone, so I brought cake."

Draco has forgotten, but Granger stalks up to him, hugs him tightly, and says "Happy birthday, Draco."

He stands still and presently removes her, but in spite of himself he is grinning.

 

* * *

 

 

Granger begins to make plans for departure in midsummer.

"I have to go back eventually - you know this whole business was only to take a break from London and the Ministry," she says.

"Only you would take a break from work by making more work."

Granger blithely ignores his jab. "I've had Professor McGonagall recommend me a Hogwarts graduate - a Hufflepuff. She says she's good with people, and she has stellar marks in Potions and Charms. She'll be just the person to take over."

"When?"

"Oh, I'll tide her over the Christmas season, of course, and come back to check up on her occasionally - but other than that, depending how she is, I'm sure she'll be ready around January."

Draco nods. He feels miserable.

Granger turns to him, her face smudged with flour. "You should come away, too," she says earnestly.

Draco's heart does a strange flutter. "I couldn't."

"Why not?" she asks.

The sideways glances. Mothers who say softly to their children, "Behave or the bad Death Eater will come and get you." The young men who look at him and whisper, "Missed Azkaban by the skin of his front teeth."

"I'm not a bleeding Gryffindor," he says by way of answer.

Granger is silent for a long while. He watches her add a couple of dried figs to her mixture. Then she says, "I should think I'm Gryffindor enough for the both of us."

Draco, whose chest is traitorously warm, stands firm.

 

* * *

 

_Autumn_

 

The Hufflepuff arrives soon after, as the leaves are turning brown again. She is clever and capable, and learns all of Granger's spells as quickly as she can teach them - but even so, Granger is kept busy all day, and very often late into the night, as well. When Draco finds a moment to slip into the kitchen, the little Hufflepuff is always there.

For three months, Draco hardly sees Granger at all. He's glad of it, really, in a way. Ever since she proposed his return, he's been racked again and again with guilt, as if some fragile fantasy has cracked. The regular arrival of Narcissa Malfoy's eagle owl only makes matters worse. Though he writes back almost every time now, Draco cannot - he just  _cannot_  face his mother.

Out of sheer boredom and loneliness, Draco was too weak to resist Granger's initial bright onslaught into his life. And now that she's planted herself firmly in his mind, he is too weak to eject her. But how can he confront the slew of ghosts she brings with her - how can he confront his past?

 

* * *

 

Late one November evening, there is a pounding at his door.

"That blasted nutcase," Draco murmurs happily.

Granger stands on his doorstep with a box of his favourites. "I wanted to check up on you," she says, pushing past him and into his kitchen. Soon she emerges with two cups of dark chocolate. She leaves hers unsweetened, but tosses two caramels into his.

"What if I hadn't been home?" he asks.

She shakes his head. "You're always home. Or at the chocolaterie."

They sip their chocolate in silence until Granger says abruptly, "I'm leaving on the seventh of January."

Draco freezes.

Granger goes on, "I'm also going to be home for most of the Christmas season. Just coming back to pack up, really."

When Draco doesn't say anything, she adds, as if she is saying nothing of import, "I want you to come with me."

"No."

"Not to London, if you don't want to. I'm sure your mother is dying to see you. I can drop you off in Wiltshire - that's home, isn't it?"

Draco knows very well that she knows where his home is. One does not easily forget the place where one has been tortured within an inch of one's life. He says, "No."

"People have changed," she says. " _You_ have changed. They'll give you a chance."

"No."

"You can't stay here forever. It's time to go," she says, very quietly. "Besides, it would be so inconvenient to visit you here - "

She sees his face and stops speaking.

 

* * *

 

_Winter_

 

Granger, as promised, goes home a week before Christmas. For the second time in its tenure, the  _Closed for Business - Back Soon_ sign comes up in the chocolaterie window.

Draco, to save himself from thinking of  _her,_  thinks of his mother.

Of course - like the first time - he sends her the great box of pistachio florentines, for confidence, a trait Narcissa Malfoy certainly needs if she is to navigate the post-War whirl of clawing herself back up into society.

He also sends her packages and packages of Chatoyant's other chocolates - some for every one of her pureblood friends who long for a taste of them as a new  _haute cuisine_  luxury. He and Granger spent hours and hours customising each package to each friend's favourites - they've discovered that Granger's  _Revelio_ also works on items of clothing or on hair.

Granger - Draco looks out at the snow-covered village from his once-customary seat at his desk. He feels like light has flooded from him in one great, swamping wave.

If only she never came to the village at all! He would have spent the rest of his days in a strange limbo, never caring, never knowing. Instead, he's condemned to a life of without-Granger - every moment of her absence a dull aching pain when contrasted to her chocolates, and her - yes, he acknowledges it now - vivacious presence.

Quietly, Tibby appears at his elbow and pushes a plate of chocolates at him.

"An owl is arriving very late one day, when Master is asleep, sir. It is holding these chocolates and a note from the Miss Granger, sir. She is telling Tibby and Minky Happy Christmas, to give these to you, and to wish you a Happy Christmas, Master."

Draco looks at the chocolates and feels a kind of agony. "Take them away, Tibby."

"Miss Granger is saying that she is making these chocolates  _special_ for Master - " Tibby begins.

"I can't eat  _anything_ right now, Tibby," Draco says with quiet desperation.

For once, Tibby does not argue, but just disappears with the chocolates.

 

* * *

 

Granger is supposed to be back the day after New Year's. So that night, Draco, having wrestled with himself and lost, makes his way over the snow-covered village square to the closed chocolaterie.

He finds the door unlocked - it always is. As he pushes it open and walks through, reminded strangely of the first broken glimpse of Granger he caught through that very door, a chorus of voices gives him pause.

Granger is there, to be sure. But frozen at the counter with two miniature cups of chocolate are his two incorrigible house-elves.

"Tibby is - "

"Minky will be - "

"That's enough," says Draco. "Go home - " he catches Granger's glare. " - And make sure  _not_ to bake your ears in the oven, or freeze your feet in an ice block, or sauté your hands in a wok, or punish yourselves in any other conceivable way!"

With two remorseful snaps, Tibby and Minky Disapparate.

"Good job," says Granger absentmindedly, as if she has  _not_ just been caught poisoning the minds of his two house-elves.

"What was that  _for?_ " he says.

"They just wanted to talk to me," she replies. She flicks her wand, and the fire flares anew in the grate.

"I can't believe  _house-elves_ would do that," says Draco.

Granger seems not to hear. "I talked to your mother in London," she tells him.

"So have you been infiltrating  _every_ corner of my life, or is there some insignificant stone somewhere you left mercifully unturned - "

"Shhhhh," says Granger, quite as if she's talking to a baby. "Your mother seems like a surprisingly reasonable woman and I think it's a crying shame you haven't seen her for years. What will you have today?"

Draco opens his mouth. He closes it. "I won't have anything, thanks. I just came here to - well, I just came here - "

 

* * *

 

Each hour seems to bring him closer to the day the village will no longer house Granger. Draco supposes he should thank Merlin for small mercies - like how the chocolaterie and its wares remain largely unchanged, thanks to Granger's Hufflepuff helper. But upstairs, past the little shop, he knows Granger is packing her things into boxes, stuffing and folding and sealing shut - and the thought is painful beyond imagination.

Still, though, he helps her organise the contents of her wardrobe, her two meagre bookshelves - sees the book  _he_ gave her the Christmas before last, well-thumbed. Every day he is over, and she rewards his help with a slice of  _gateau_ or a plate of Bavarian cream. They eat together by firelight.

Once, too close to her departure date, Draco looks up from the box of magical items he's sorting to find Granger's eyes trained on him with a  _strange_ expression. His notice discomforts her, and she drops the orange cat paperweight she's been holding. It falls to the floor and gives an angry meow.

They both move to pick it up. Draco reaches it first - grabs it - but it hisses and slinks out of his grasp towards Granger. He moves again - but Granger has caught it already. He closes his hands over hers.

The contact is warm and surprising and both of them look up with a jolt.

"Don't go," says Draco impulsively.

A silence follows, during which Draco realises many things in quick succession. First - that this is the first time he's ever said that to Granger - the first time he's ever really  _thought_ it out loud, himself. Second - that his hand has tightened of its own accord around hers. Third - that her free hand has travelled up his other arm, and is  _holding_ it - they are so close, nose-to-nose, that her whisper brushes his lips.

"I have to."

So close so close what would his father  _think_ \- he looks down at her and feels a dizzying mixture of confusion and  _joy._ Granger lifts her hand and it rests ever-so-warmly on the crook between his shoulder and neck - and that goddamned  _cat_ thinks it an appropriate time at which to let out a yowl.

"Crookshanks has always been a bit temperamental," says Granger, once he's released her and distanced himself.

He nods, the place on his neck seeming to still throb, and there is one thought in his head - get out  _get out get out get out._

So after a few minutes and some perfunctory excuses, that's what he does - home through the slicing-cold winter air.


	4. Winter Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last chapter of Chocolat! I apologise that it took so long in posting, and hope you enjoy!

When Granger leaves, Draco manages a few days without anything that reminds him of her, mostly just to see if he can. By the end of the week, he cracks. He is dreading the journey to the Granger-less chocolaterie, when a sudden thought lights up his head.

"Tibby!" he calls, and the house elf appears. "Have we still got Miss Granger's Christmas chocolates? The ones she sent specially for me?"

"Yes, Tibby and Minky is keeping them safe, sir," says Tibby, Disapparating and returning with two near-simultaneous pops. He hands Draco the chocolates, neatly plated; then, without waiting to be dismissed, disappears.

The chocolates don't seem anything special at all. In fact, they can't be numbered among Granger's most beautiful creations. They look hastily made, some misshapen. He places one on the tip of his tongue. He waits for the familiar infusion of feeling that Granger brings. He waits for seconds. He waits for minutes. And he feels nothing other than the melange of fear, dull pain, and - attachment he always does.

Nothing. The woman left him nothing, not even an escape. He feels a white flash of anger pulse through him, and all the energy he's repressed since he first came to the little village bursts out. He hurls the plate of chocolates at the wall. The plate splinters. The sweets tumble everywhere. He looks about for something else to break. With an unearthly yell, he smashes his desk chair into his desk. Ink goes flying over his shirt. He thinks about Granger in London, for the first time since she actually went back, thinks about her with that happy look on her face she gets when she's with Potter, thinks about her rebuilding that tentative friendship with Weasley, thinks about her smile and her wandwork, and turns with a savage look upon his pristinely crisp bed.

Narcissa Malfoy, whose knack for timing has always been precise, walks in.

"Mother," Draco gasps.

"Draco," she says calmly.

"Mother," he says again, uncomprehending. "How did you know where to - ?" he begins, then cuts himself off. "Never mind," he says. He remembers, a day ago, stumbling upon Minky huddled beneath the dining room table, with a suspicious-looking piece of parchment and a quill in hand.

"I wouldn't come except under special circumstances," Narcissa says, "and I know you know that. However, two weeks ago the Manor received a visit from Miss Hermione Granger."

"I understand that it wasn't the first time," Draco bites out. Maybe if Granger hadn't intruded everywhere she could possibly stick her nose -

"Bitterness," says Narcissa, "does not become you." She sits down on the bed, which fortunately he has not destroyed.

"Why have you been seeing Miss Granger?" says Draco. "She's a - "

"A Muggleborn?" Narcissa rejoins neatly. "Draco, why have _you_ been seeing her? Your father rooted his beliefs as thoroughly in you as mine did in me."

Draco looks at the pieces of broken plate on the floor. Some of the chocolates have survived intact. "I don't know," he says. It's a lie.

Narcissa simply looks at him.

"At first it was because of the chocolates," he says. "I'm sure you understand."

"They _are_ extraordinary."

"Then I suppose I was bored - very bored, and she's interesting to talk to, and nice, when you forget about - about all of that, all of before. It's so different - everything's so different out here and away from everyone."

Narcissa nods. "And now? How do you feel now that she's in London again?"

"Like before she came," says Draco.

Narcissa waits.

"But worse," he admits.

"Draco," says Narcissa. "A short time ago, I would never have allowed Miss Granger behind the gates of the Manor. But I care about different things now. My criteria for who does or does not associate with a Malfoy have changed - they have had to."

"Of course," says Draco. He wonders why his mother is telling him something so obvious. Clearly, as the definition of rank shifted, so would she, Narcissa Malfoy, a Slytherin. No doubt she realises the full significance of Granger's goodwill.

Narcissa pauses. "A few months before, her status did matter to me. But now - I suppose I'm trying to say that her blood, her differences, her beliefs - throughout the war and the years after, I've come to realise that all that is offset by the fact that she loves you - very much indeed - so deeply that she would do almost anything for you, even what I did at the Battle of Hogwarts. And, Draco, you can wait a whole lifetime and not find many more people willing to make that sort of sacrifice."

"If she feels that way," says Draco, shocked, "why wouldn't she stay?"

"Draco," says Narcissa, "she, too, needs proof that you care about her - that is, if you do. So far, she has initiated almost everything. Do you wonder that this particular first move falls to you?"

Draco is silent.

"Now, what made you so angry that you destroyed your room?"

"Her chocolates," says Draco, embarrassed.

"Those?" says Narcissa. Pushing aside her obscenely expensive robes, she sinks to the floor and picks up a chocolate. Wonders, it seems, will never cease.

"Yes," says Draco. "Nothing changed. They weren't working."

Narcissa closes her eyes, puts the sweet in her mouth, and chews. Time turns to a thick honey as Draco watches her every movement closely.

When she looks up at him again, her eyes are filled with tears, but she says only, "They work for me."

Narcissa Disapparates after cunningly extracting permission for further visits and a promise that Draco will think things over, which he decides to do as soon as her departing "pop" fades into silence. He takes the stairs two at a time and, following his mother's example, kneels and retrieves some of the chocolates. How the mighty, he thinks, have fallen. He puts one in his mouth again, making sure to chew and swallow carefully. Still, there is no burst of emotion. Draco searches himself. Nothing - except maybe he's a little sadder than he's been since his mother's visit.

He remembers the tears in Narcissa's eyes. Do the chocolates contain some special compound to which only he is immune? He doubts it. Immunity and strength are not words he'd associate with any part of his own system.

"Minky," he says to the air.

Minky, his small loincloth fluttering from the force of his Apparition, appears. "Yes, master?" he says.

"Could you do me a favour, eat one of those chocolates, and tell me what it feels like?"

Minky shakes his head. "House elves is allergic to chocolate, sir," he says.

"Damn," says Draco. "Never mind."

Minky nods, and Disapparates.

So he has only his mother's experience to go by. Draco closes his eyes and thinks very hard. He thinks of Granger, stirring and stirring the couverture. He thinks of the rows of Potions ingredients stacked neatly on her shelves. He thinks of her furrowed brow as she casts the spells. He thinks of the joy, the calmness, the satiation he feels after Granger's chocolates.

His eyes fly open. For the second time that day, a light goes off in his head. Happiness! He's never felt a negative emotion after eating any of Granger's confections. They're designed, after all, to be enjoyable - "to trigger dopamine receptors in the brain, and keep customers coming back for more," Granger said, and though he only very fuzzily grasps the concept of dopamine, he understands perfectly well the addiction to happiness.

Only happiness wasn't what kept him going to the chocolaterie, was it? That's why he hasn't been back for a quick fix since Granger left. It was the company of Hermione Granger, mudblood, that anchored him to it.

"I infuse my own emotions into my chocolates," he remembers her saying on more than one occasion. In the most personal way, her chocolates are her. And her note had said those chocolates were made specially for him. He rounds on the remaining chocolates, their hastily-formed imperfection, as if they were made in a great urgency, filled with something she needed to say.

Draco Malfoy is no qualified sleuth, nor is he anything remotely resembling a Mind-Healer, but he bounds down the stairs, ignores the surprised and ecstatic stares of Tibby and Minky, pulls on his greatcoat, and runs out into the night.

 

* * *

 

 

"The irony," he says, "doesn't escape me, that it's you, Granger - "

"Draco Lucius Malfoy," says Hermione Granger, who has, apparently, taken the trouble to learn his middle name. "It's the middle of the night, and you're covered in snow - "

"Eleven o'clock," says Draco happily, "is not the middle of the night. And anyone who says otherwise is weak. And it's not like I could get much paler anyway."

Spasms cross Granger's face, like she's not sure whether to hug him or interrogate him or yell at him. She settles on all three. "I wasn't sure whether I was ever going to see you on your own volition again," she says, "let alone so soon, you - you cock canoe!"

The joy Draco is feeling cannot possibly stem from any chocolate. "I wasn't going to - I was going to stew for the rest of my life, in fact," he says.

"What changed your stupid mind?" she says, finally letting go of him.

"A combination of things," he says.

She remains quiet - an accusing sort of quiet, eerily like his mother.

"My mother, my house-elves, and your Christmas chocolates," he clarifies.

"The chocolates," she says softly. "I thought you'd had them."

"No," he says. "But I remembered them, and when I had one I felt no change at all. I was - well, more than a little confused. But then I realised the chocolates must be filled with a negative sensation - that's why there was no bubble-burst of happiness, so to speak, and that's why my mother, who cries exactly never, teared up when she tried, and since I felt not a thing when I ate one - "

" - they must have been filled with the exact same emotion you were feeling," finishes Granger, wondering.

The contact is electric, a clash of memories and of magic, along with her lips on his. Draco, who has never been big on kissing, melts.

"I came for your chocolates," he says, feeling his own tongue fumble and betray him against her mouth. "Merlin, with those chocolatier skills you should be a Mind-Healer or a potioneer - Merlin!" he realises dimly, that her hands are around his neck and she is preventing him from speech - "but I stayed - " where are his own hands? He can't feel them, or care - "for you, Granger," he finishes - he's encircling her -

He knows it won't be easy. Throughout the next months, there'll be moments when he wishes he never left the safety of the hamlet and of his tired home - but right now he can't care about anything - and anyway, as she says, she's Gryffindor enough - for the both of them.

 

* * *

 

 

Unbeknownst to Draco, Tibby and Minky are talking back in the cottage, as they've done so many times over the past few months.

"Minky is thinking," says Minky, "that Minky and Tibby should be going to the London house and airing it out."

Tibby tucks himself into the miniature bed in the room they share. "Not tonight, Minky," he says. "Master Draco and Miss Granger is going to want to be alone a long time yet."

"Minky supposes Tibby is right." As Minky pulls on the patched bit of sock he uses for a nightcap, he reflects that he and Tibby deserve a bit of a holiday - after all the pains they've taken. Tomorrow, without Master Draco's erratic sleeping patterns, they'll wake up as late as they want. When he comes back for them, they can ply his relationship with Miss Granger to their full advantage - after all, they had as large a hand in creating it as anyone - and they'll ask for - Weary to the bone, Minky falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

"In the morning," Draco says, "we should call on my mother."

Granger smiles up at him through her curtain of curls, and once more Draco relives that first blurry glimpse he caught of her through the chocolaterie doorway.

"We should," she says. "Then sometime later we can go back and collect Tibby and Minky too - I'll go to the chocolaterie so we can bring your mother some of her favourites - "

"Granger," he says, "one step at a time," and he leans down towards her mouth, and she pulls him towards her, and that, he thinks through a warm vanilla-cognac haze, is just the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this story, and hope that you enjoyed reading it just as much!  
> much love, christa xxx

**Author's Note:**

> Please R&R and tell me what you think! Thank you so much for reading Chocolat! xxx, Christa.


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